The clouds beneath the moon tonight are spread so wide in such a show of pastels,
it’s as if they’re suspended from the moon itself and the whole sky were nothing less
than a supernaturally radiant field of energy and life. But that isn’t true, yes, I know,
for hasn’t science been telling us so? Forget the simple fact of the clouds—
haven't we exposed the intimate details surrounding our satellite’s orbit and mass,
and watched as our heroes probed it for days and returned with only rocks and dust?
Then how can it be, that the moon is so naked and unashamed?
It’s like a woman’s wet lips bursting with starlight...
Oh stop telling me I’ve had too much wine! Better for one to be stumbling drunk
than stumbling over small superstitions, obsolete gods, and the spectral flow
of these seductive spirits! Nothing but causes and effects here, right?…

I'm Michelle. This is my blog. I write about women and fatness, expound upon semi-coherent thoughts I have in the middle of the night, and offer tough love to those in whom I am disappointed; they are legion.